


Unexpected gifts of baking

by redsnake05



Category: Liverpool Celebrities RPF
Genre: Baking, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Admiration, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: Jürgen Klopp wasn't sure what had possessed him to agree to appear on a Sports Relief episode ofThe Great British Bake Off, but here he was. Paul Hollywood was delighted that he'd accepted the invitation. They find friendship based in similarities and comfort, and then something more.





	Unexpected gifts of baking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunafish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunafish/gifts).



Jürgen Klopp was convinced he was going to be fired, assuming, that is, that he made it through the next few weeks at all. He dimly remembered, of course, being asked to participate in the Sports Relief Bake Off, and even more dimly remembered saying yes, he'd be interested. There was a world of difference, however, between politely indicating interest in something in the remote future, and being rudely reminded of it via an email with a filming date and a set of instructions. He hadn't even given a definite yes!

He looked again at the email, with its helpful attachments including a contract, with his signature indisputably on it. That was pretty much a definite yes. He stared at it resentfully. He'd even remembered to put it in his diary and negotiate some time off, so he couldn't even claim that. He wasn't entirely sure he could get through this experience without disaster.

The problem wasn't that he couldn't bake; that didn't actually seem to be a condition of anyone's participation in the Sports Relief show. Besides, his grandmother had pressed him into service as her assistant many times in his youth, and he had a lot of quiet enthusiasm for the art. It wasn't that he didn't support the aims of Sport Relief, though he did think it was a indictment on capitalism that people had to fundraise to help orphaned children have a place to live and not have to beg, but still. That wasn't the problem.

He looked at the email and clicked on the last attachment. It opened on his screen, and the so-called personalised note from Paul Hollywood stared back at him, thanking Jürgen for agreeing to be on the show and expressing his desire to meet him. He had to give them points for making it look like actual handwriting, but there was no way that Paul Hollywood himself would have written an actual note for a lowly participant on the show. He'd be lucky if Paul looked at him with anything other than disdain or bland indifference, much less actually notice the quality or lack thereof of his baking. 

He had to admit, he was nervous. He would never admit to his fondness for _The Great British Bake Off_ , but it had been a staple of his life since his move to Liverpool in 2015. He'd been idly flicking through the channels after a fraught day of meetings and trainings and professional footballers somehow failing to act like professionals, when the baking show had caught his eye. He'd just watched it randomly, since they seemed to be reruns, but he found himself irresistibly fascinated by the challenges, the technical skill and creative artistry of the bakers, and, most importantly, by one of the judges. Paul Hollywood gave feedback and evaluations like a master - always focused on the best possible product, and the details that went into that harmonious whole. Jürgen thought he might have watched every episode since.

Resolutely pushing aside his admiration for the man and his flawless taste for baked goods, Jürgen turned instead to the rules, the details and, most importantly, the two bakes he'd be able to practice at home. He hadn't become a professional footballer and accomplished manager without precise attention to detail and a fondness for practicing. He would channel his grandmother and her fervour for aprons, flour, eggs and butter, and do his best. Since he'd agreed to the damn-fool event. For no other reason at all. 

>>>>

Paul Hollywood looked round the tent with pleasure and keen anticipation. He always loved baking days, and he was looking forward to this one with especial interest. He stopped himself from rubbing his hands. It was best not to let one's feelings show in front of the contestants. He carefully refrained from looking at one of the contestants in particular. It would never do to show any kind of favouritism, even though inviting Jürgen Klopp had been his idea, and no one had really understood how delighted he was when the man said yes.

Paul had always been a Liverpool fan. It was a given, growing up on the Wirral. He knew of some people who supported Everton, of course, but he wouldn't say they were friends. But Jürgen was someone that Paul thought really understood the things that made Liverpool special, which was unusual for someone who hadn't grown up on the cold, open estuaries, and weren't born with the particular grey of the urban city in their bones. There was a certain kind of creative energy that came from the thin wind, the bustling port, and the hard yards of life here. It was most often seen in the thriving music scene, but there were other spheres too. Paul thought he had a streak of it in his own chosen path, and he was sure he'd seen it in Jürgen's choices as manager so far.

He stopped opposite Jürgen and watched him grate the butter into the dry ingredients of his shortcake. He'd not seen anyone actually grate butter before. Most cut it in with a pastry cutter, or used their fingers, but this looked novel. He asked about it.

"My grandmother's technique," Jürgen said. "A cold tea towel to wrap the butter, and the pieces can then be broken down further with a fork if need be."

"Did your grandmother tell you why she did this?" asked Paul.

"She said it kept the butter pieces uniform," said Jürgen, "but she also found it hard to coordinate the bowl and the two knives as she got older, and it was easier to press a grandchild into service with the grater." His reminiscent smile was somehow charming, almost intimate, like he and Paul were just talking about their lives like old friends. Paul found himself smiling back, and it was warmer and more genuine than the one he usually produced for contestants.

"My father was a baker," said Paul, "and I sometimes wonder how many bad habits I picked up from him and his shortcuts."

Jürgen paused, looking at him steadily. "If they work, then they are merely heterodox techniques," he said. "It's only when they get in the way of the success of your finished product that they become bad habits."

He resumed grating and Paul left him with some conventional hopes for his success, though he really wanted to pull up a stool and hear the full story of how you could tell the difference between the two.

Much later, when the tent was full of congratulatory back-slapping and hugs, Paul found himself next to Jürgen, their most recent star baker, for a moment

"Congratulations," Paul said, though he'd said it once before already. He hoped that Jürgen could hear that this one was for more than just the achievement of winning, but for the effort of getting there too. 

"I didn't think my products reached your level of expectation," said Jürgen.

"They didn't have to," said Paul. "You were prepared, which automatically exceeds my expectations as far as attitude goes, and you had a good eye for technique. I don't think I would meet your expectations for playing football either."

"Give it a try," said Jürgen. "I still do a little skills workout every week, and you are most welcome to come."

Paul smiled as he looked at Jürgen. The invitation was simple and sincere, and Paul had no doubt that Jürgen meant what he said. It would be fun, even though Paul hadn't played in years, and was getting older and inflexible into the bargain.

"I'd love to," he said. 

>>>>

"It's open," Jürgen called, when he heard the familiar knock on the door. Paul had been a regular visitor for a while now, and Jürgen liked the easy closeness they'd built up. Paul was not quite the same as the image Jürgen had built up for him, but the fundamental things were the same, and the differences were a better fit than he could have imagined. 

Paul rounded the corner into the kitchen and dropped his bags on the counter so he could look over Jürgen's shoulder, hand resting warm between his shoulder blades.

"I still can't figure out the secret for fluffy spätzle," he said. 

"You need a grandmother who wasn't about to let her Swabian neighbours outdo her," Jürgen said. 

"I made one of my grandmother's favourites as well," Paul said. "Though she always objected to the jokes my grandfather made about Liverpool tarts."

"I've not tried it before," Jürgen said.

"I'm catching the wave of regional revival," said Paul. "Why should Bakewell and Manchester get all the love?"

"Why indeed?" asked Jürgen. He thought that Paul's growing interest in regional baking and recipes often resulted in delicious things, and he was happy to taste them. It seemed a simple arrangement to him, and it was nice to see the depths of his new home through the eyes of a local. He'd come to realise that Paul made food as a gift, and it had, in turn, become a way for Jürgen to share affection too. 

They worked around each other in companionable peace. This had become a habit for them, to meet at one house or another, to make food together and share it, to talk late into the night about everything and nothing. Jürgen carefully didn't think about the intimacy this implied. He simply accepted it, along with the small touches and gestures that he enjoyed far too much. They sat at his small kitchen table and ate the food they'd made. Paul could never help himself from evaluating the dishes, but his critiques were always kind, and Jürgen knew that he appreciated receiving the gift of food as much as he loved to give it. 

Paul was endlessly thoughtful, in a practical way, and even rinsing the dishes and stacking the dishwasher after dinner became an expected sort of domestic ritual. 

Tonight, as he looked at Paul standing in his kitchen with a homely dishcloth in his hands and the overhead lights bathing them in a soft glow and shutting out the rest of the world, he realised that there was a lot more to their friendship than comfort and peace. Without thinking, he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to Paul's lips. 

He only fully realised what he'd done when Paul made a small noise, indicative perhaps of surprise or dismay, but he didn't have time to leap back and stammer apologies that would be awkward and insincere. Paul dropped the dishcloth and cupped his hand around the back of Jürgen's neck, returning the kiss with soft promise.

"What was that?" asked Jürgen, as they stepped apart, long moments later.

"It was your kiss," Paul replied. He was smiling, though, and he hadn't moved away. "What do you want it to mean?"

"I don't know," Jürgen said. "Do I have to know everything?"

"Here," said Paul, pulling him close again. "I know what this one means." Jürgen let himself enjoy this kiss, and the warmth of Paul's hand on his neck, the way his own hands could spread out over Paul's back. The kiss was slow, unhurried, but with a little hungry edge of anticipation. Jürgen rather thought it meant a subtle change to the friendship they already had, not a rift or a dramatic gesture, and he was okay with that.

"Good," Jürgen said, when they broke apart again. 

"Good?" asked Paul.

"Yes. Now, do you want a whiskey, or a cup of tea, and perhaps another kiss later?"

Paul laughed and squeezed Jürgen's shoulder gently before leaning in to brush their lips together once more. "What about now?" he asked, teasing evident in his voice.

"Preparation," said Jürgen, like it answered the question, and perhaps it did, because Paul moved away to put the kettle on.

"You get the whiskey," he said. "I still don't trust how you make tea."

"I would prefer a coffee anyway," Jürgen replied, but he let them move around each other in the space they'd made, and was happy with the answers they'd found. He knew there would be practice to be had, and evaluations to be made, and he was looking forward to it. They would find a way.

**Author's Note:**

> This story happens at some unspecified time around now-ish, and please accept my handwaving of all practical considerations and constraints.


End file.
